


I Was Lost For You to Find

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Asexual Tim Drake, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Has ADHD, Dick Grayson has eldest daughter syndrome, Dysfunctional Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Foster Care, Found Family, Gay Jason Todd, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bruce Wayne, Romani Dick Grayson, Sibling Bonding, Young Dick Grayson, alfred carries the brain cell, and each chapter covers their first year or so with bruce, both for spoiler reasons and because i'm bad at planning, bruce is so lucky to have him, dick is eight jason is twelve etc, everyone is introduced at roughly the same age there were in the comics, he's so cute i love him, hey you ever think about how bruce is only 26 when he takes in dick, more tags will be added with each chapter, mostly the latter, that's so wild to me, that's the same age as spencer from season one of icarly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Bruce never planned on having kids. After watching his parents die, the idea of starting a family of his own was foolishness at best and an impending disaster at worst. Never in his wildest dreams did Bruce think he'd ever be up to the task of raising a child, and he was okay with that. But when an orphaned acrobat starts weighing on his mind, Bruce makes the (questionable) decision to become a foster father. Everything after that is just dumb luck.
Relationships: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & His Kids, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Duke Thomas & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 54
Kudos: 217





	I Was Lost For You to Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And who I was has disappeared  
>  It doesn't matter, now you're here  
> So innocent  
> I was lost for you to find  
> And now I'm yours and you are mine_
> 
> _— “Everything Changes” from Waitress_

Bruce hasn’t been the same since the circus.  
  
He tries to block it out. Being there when the Flying Graysons fell, _seeing_ it happen with his own two eyes...it was like reliving that night in the alley all over again.  
  
His nightmares now take the shape of two bodies slamming into the sawdust floor of that damned tent, their limbs twisting into unnatural, snapped angles on impact. He will forever be plagued by the immortal fragrance of peanuts and popcorn lingering in his nostrils, the scents themselves now laced with shock, horror, tragedy. Bruce will never again be able to enjoy a movie theater without his ears ringing with the screams of the crowd around him, each spectator doomed to watching the devastation as it fell fifty feet before their eyes.  
  
Most of all, he hasn’t forgotten the absolute terror in the littlest Grayson’s eyes as he watched his entire world come crashing down, right in front of him. It’s a terror Bruce knows well—one he wished no other human being would ever have to experience.  
  
“I can’t just _leave_ him, Alfred.”  
  
The morning paper is laid out on the table in front of Bruce, its headline a gut-punch all its own. _"_ _Haly’s Circus Acrobats Killed in Tragic Stunt, Leaving Behind Orphaned Son."_  
  
Alfred clicks his tongue as he clears away Bruce’s breakfast plate. “Social services will take good care of the boy, I’m sure. That’s what they are there for.”  
  
“In this city? Do you really believe that?”  
  
“Can’t we put that awful circus tragedy behind us? I understand your concern, Master Bruce—I often myself find myself worrying about that poor boy. But you cannot save the world on your own. I fear that getting too close to this tragedy will do you more harm than good.”  
  
He’s right. Bruce _knows_ he’s right. It’s only been three days and Bruce is still just as shaken as he was in the tent. He can’t imagine how Dick Grayson must be faring right now, so soon after watching his own _parents_ die. And in such a horrific manner, no less. The last glimpse Dick had of his parents was their contorted bodies lying on the ground, their necks bent and eyes staring emptily, endlessly, _lifelessly._ Bruce shudders just thinking about it.  
  
“Why are you so hung up on this?” Alfred asks, swiping a crumb from the tablecloth. “What makes this boy so special to you?”  
  
Bruce has been asking himself the same question. There were hundreds of people at Haly’s that day. Why Bruce? Why should the responsibility of saving this boy fall to _him,_ a stranger who happened to get unwanted circus tickets from his secretary?  
  
“I saw something in his eyes that day, Alfred. I recognized it. I _felt_ it. It was like I was watching my own parents’ deaths all over again.”  
  
Alfred presses his lips together grimly. “I had a feeling you would say that. I can’t say that I didn’t feel it as well.”  
  
“I know exactly what Dick is going through. I have been in his shoes, felt the _exact_ same pain that he’s feeling right now, only I didn’t have to handle it alone. You were there to guide me through it, show me that life was still worth living. Dick...he doesn’t have that. And no amount of child psychologists and social workers will change the fact that he’s completely alone.”  
  
Alfred sighs. He places the stack of plates he was collecting back on the table and puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “The world is so dreadfully unfair when it comes to the innocent, isn’t it?”  
  
“It doesn’t have to be.”  
  
That afternoon, Bruce sets himself on a mission. He gathers his checkbooks and researches what happened to Dick Grayson after that night. Some donations to children’s centers is a start, just to take the edge off, but Bruce needs to go deeper. Provide help right at the source, funnel every cent he has to spare into whatever orphanage or children’s center Dick was sent to in the hope that it will be enough to get Dick the help he needs, along with as many other kids as possible. And maybe a trust fund for Dick too, just in case. It’s unlikely that a pair of circus performers was able to salvage enough savings for a college fund.  
  
Less than an hour later, Bruce storms into the pantry where Alfred is organizing the week’s groceries. He slams his phone against a shelf. “Juvie. They sent him to _juvie,_ Alfred.” It’s difficult just getting the words out past the outrage clogging his throat and making his fists shake.  
  
Some bullshit regarding an issue with the Graysons’ wills, the files said. No one at the circus was able to take Dick in, so he was left to the state, which was already packed to bursting with hundreds of other Gotham orphans whose parents were either killed in any number of crime-related accidents or simply dropped their child off when they couldn’t afford to care for them any longer.  
  
So, with nowhere else to put him, it was decided that the Gotham Juvenile Detention Center was the most convenient place to shove their newest problem. Unbelievable. _Inexcusable._  
  
Something needs to be done.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The next day, Bruce starts filling out the paperwork to become a foster parent.  
  
It’s a mostly straightforward process— _do you have a valid driver’s license, what is your social security number, have you ever molested a child before or plan to do so if we give you one—_ you know, the usual questions.  
  
“Alfred, do we use propane in our appliances?”  
  
“Alfred, are their child locks on our windows?”  
  
“Alfred, have you ever been convicted of a felony?”  
  
“Which felony were you convicted of and why was I not made aware of it until now?”  
  
“You’re being unusually quiet right now.”  
  
“Alfred.”  
  
Twenty-four hours and so many phone calls later that Bruce wants to burrow into his mattress and sleep for the next two hundred years...it’s official. Bruce Thomas Wayne is a foster father in the state of New Jersey. The application process is traditionally a far longer one, but anything can be sped up if you’re a billionaire, and Dick has been in that horrible detention center long enough.  
  
“Are you certain about this?” Alfred asks for the thirtieth time since Bruce first began the paperwork.  
  
Bruce has his phone in his hand, already punching in the number for the social worker who will be releasing Dick into Bruce’s custody. It will take a while to work out the details, and a judge will have to give the final okay, but hopefully Dick will be out of juvie and into a proper home by the end of the week.  
  
“Taking care of a child is a big commitment. Are you sure you are up to the task?”  
  
Bruce presses the talk button and holds the phone to his ear. “How hard can it be?”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Child acquired. Mission accomplished. Return to base.  
  
The Gotham Youth Detention Center is a cold, dreary place—so atrociously unlike the proper environment that a child _should_ grow up in. Bruce will be complaining to the city council about this.  
  
If Dick is at all fazed by the prospect of going to live with a billionaire, he doesn’t show it. The child is curt, quiet, so unlike what one would picture a former circus performer to act like. He looks different, too, now that he’s without the acrobat leotard and stage makeup.  
  
He’s short, no more than four feet tall, and that’s being _generous._ He’s lithe too, with inky hair that hangs in his eyes no matter how fervently he pushes it back. His skin is somewhere between olive and sienna, light enough to pass as white to an untrained eye but dark enough to stick out among the white bread slices that make up Gotham’s highest caste.  
  
What’s most unnerving is that Dick hasn’t said a word since he was released into Bruce’s custody. He shook Bruce’s hand when they were introduced, listened quietly while Bruce explained the new situation, but he offered nothing more than a small nod. This might as well be a different child entirely from the one Bruce saw at the circus, waving enthusiastically at the crowd and cartwheeling just for the hell of it.  
  
Not that his misery isn’t justified. In less than a week Dick has lost both of his parents, been taken away from the only home he’s ever known, and got crammed into a facility where he was more likely to be bullied into submission than get a hug. Dick may be the size of a Munchkin, and he may be wearing a Spongebob shirt, but he’s aged years in the past few days. Bruce can only hope that his childhood hasn’t been robbed for good.  
  
The car ride back is quiet, save for the rumbling engine and the soft rock station playing on the radio. Dick only has a few suitcases of things—toys, clothes, mementos from his life before the accident. Growing up in an international traveling circus, he must be used to traveling lightly.  
  
“You’ll like the manor,” Bruce says, breaking the unsteady silence. “It’s a big estate with plenty of room for you to run around.”  
  
Dick just nods. It’s hard to tell if he’s even listening or merely letting the words float in his peripheral.  
  
“I have a butler, Alfred. He’s a good man. He raised me, actually.” Still no response. Bruce drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We’re having a roast for dinner. I don’t know if you like roasts, but Alfred is an excellent cook. There are also potatoes, glazed carrots, possibly a spice cake for dessert—”  
  
“You were there.” It’s not a question, but it feels like one. “I saw you in the front row. Mr. Haly said you were famous.”  
  
Bruce doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “I’m so sorry, Dick. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling now, so soon after the accident, but I hope—”  
  
“It wasn’t an accident.” The words crack through the air like a whip. Bruce’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Everyone kept saying it was, but I saw. A guy tampered with the ropes before they went up.” There’s a faint sniffle. Dick shifts in his seat. “I didn’t know what it meant. That’s why I didn’t...why they...”  
  
Bruce manages to keep his tone even. “Have you told the police about this?”  
  
“They said they’ll catch him.”  
  
Bruce makes a mental note to ask Jim Gordon about that later. He’ll give him a call tonight, hopefully convince him to take on the case himself and keep Bruce updated throughout. Dick has been through enough trauma as it is; Bruce needs someone he can trust on the front lines of this mess.  
  
They’ve stopped at a red light, so Bruce turns to look at the kid. There are tears charting their way down Dick’s cheeks, dripping onto his shirt. His shoulders shake with silent sobs. “Dick. Look at me.” Teary blue eyes meet his own. “It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
Dick’s lip quivers. “I should’ve told someone about what I saw. I should’ve—”  
  
“No. That man shouldn’t have killed your parents. _He’s_ the one to blame. And I promise you that he will face justice for what he did. I’ll make sure of it.”  
  
This never should have happened. Dick should be up on that trapeze right now, performing with his parents and still believing that the world is made of cotton candy and rainbows. No child should have to hold the weight of such tragedy on their shoulders. No child should have to know the meaning of tragedy at all.  
  
“I don’t want a new dad,” Dick mutters, startling Bruce with the shift. “I already have one. I don’t need you to pretend.” His eyes are narrowed despite the blatant tear tracks still coursing their way down his cheeks.  
  
“I know. I’m not trying to replace your parents, Dick.”  
  
“The social worker lady. She said you wanted to be my foster father.”  
  
“It’s just a title, I assure you. I understand that I’m not your parent, and I won’t try to be.”  
  
“Then why take me in at all? What do you _get_ out of this?” Dick’s hands ball into fists where they rest on his knees. They’re shaking.  
  
Bruce can’t say he wasn’t expecting this question. Anyone who’s spent five minutes in Gotham knows who Bruce Wayne is, how he floats through life with nothing but pockets of money and his “playboy wiles.” What must Dick think? That Bruce did this on a whim? A publicity stunt? That he was bored and wanted a new toy?  
  
_Because I used to_ be _you, and it turned me from a depressed child into a bitter adult. It destroyed me. You deserve better than that._ “I just want to make sure that you’re taken care of,” he says instead, and it’s not even a lie. “But if you want me to keep my distance, I will.”  
  
Dick wipes fresh tears on his shirt. “You’re not my dad.”  
  
Message received. Bruce tells himself that it’s the verdict he wanted—that it’s a _relief,_ really. He’s not a father, and Dick isn’t his son. They’re on the same page.  
  
Dick’s tears have slowed by the time they reach Wayne Manor. He gapes as the mansion approaches from the distance, leaning forward in his seat. He takes in the iron gate surrounding the property; the acres of land surrounding the house; the turrets that are a bit showy, if Bruce is being sincere. “That’s your _house?”_  
  
“It is.”  
  
“It’s the size of Texas!”  
  
“I think you’re off by a few thousand square miles there, but yes. Welcome home, Dick.”  
  
Dick’s awe hasn’t waned by the time they make it to the house, their arms weighed down by Dick’s bags. Alfred, supernaturally punctual as always, meets them at the door an instant before Bruce’s fingers touch the doorknob. “It’s about time, Master Bruce. Five more minutes and dinner would have gotten cold.”  
  
As if Alfred would ever let that happen. Bruce deposits Dick’s suitcases by the front door to be taken upstairs later. “Dick, this is Alfred. He’s the one I told you about earlier.”  
  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Richard.”  
  
“Hi, Mister Alfred. You can call me Dick.” The lad seems to have lost the surly mood he carried during the car ride, now replaced with utter fascination. He eyes the crystal chandelier above their heads as they walk through the foyer into the main section of the manor. “This place is _wicked._ It’s like being in a castle.”  
  
“I’m glad you think so.” Alfred doesn’t even attempt to conceal the way he puffs up with pride. Finally someone new who can appreciate the twenty-plus years he’s spent keeping the estate in pristine condition. “How was the drive up?”  
  
“Bruce let me ride in the front seat,” Dick reports proudly. “It was _so_ cool.”  
  
“Did he, now?” Alfred gives Bruce a look. “I’m afraid I will have to give Master Bruce a lecture about how children under a certain height are supposed to ride in the _back_ of the car.”  
  
Oh. Well, how was he supposed to know that?  
  
Alfred takes it upon himself to show Dick around the mansion, pointing out each room and its purpose like a tour guide. Dick is far more animated with Alfred around, chattering on and on about every cool new thing he finds. It must be exciting seeing it all for the first time, this huge mysterious house with all sorts of places to explore. Alfred suggests that Dick can come with him to the market the next morning so he can pick out his own shampoos and soaps, maybe get some new clothes.  
  
Bruce trails behind the two silently, letting them have their fun. Thank god for Alfred. At least there’s one person in this house who Dick likes.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The first few days are...awkward. Neither Bruce nor Dick quite knows what to do with the other, so Bruce finds himself locked away in his office more often than not. It’s probably for the best, anyway. The longer Dick lives at the manor, the more Bruce realizes how little he knows when it comes to raising a child.  
  
His rare and feeble attempts at parenting don’t go as planned, making it clear right off the bat that perhaps Bruce isn’t suited for this job, after all.  
  
On the second night, Dick complains that he’s hungry an hour before supper, so Bruce hands him a bag of potato chips. After all, potatoes are vegetables, and children need those, right? It’s a reasonable solution. Alfred later informs Bruce that potato chips are evidently _not_ a proper supper and bans them from the house entirely.  
  
The next day, Bruce foolishly lets Dick play outside without supervision, and the kid returns hours later covered in mud. On the bright side, Dick loves bath time. Bruce misguidedly dumps in half a bottle of bubble soap and floods the entire bathroom with foam.  
  
“Master Bruce, you are overthinking this.”  
  
Bruce is sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. “No, this was a mistake. I’m such an idiot. I don’t know a _thing_ about raising a child.” He’s twenty-six years old, for Christ’s sake. He should be bringing supermodels on yacht trips and wasting his parents’ fortune on jello shots—not assigning himself the duty of raising a traumatized child.  
  
“Children are a hassle,” Alfred agrees. He finishes drying the plates from dinner and starts stacking them in the cupboard. “But everyone figures it out eventually. I’m sure that you will, too.”  
  
“You have too much faith in me, Alfred.”  
  
“I should hope so. Somebody around here ought to.”  
  
“I’m going to screw this kid up for life,” Bruce moans, ignoring Alfred’s misguided support. “God, why did you let me do this?”  
  
“What makes you think that I have any control over the things you do? One would have an easier time teaching a rhinoceros to waltz.”  
  
Bruce is about to offer a rebuttal when he hears tiny, shuffling feet in the hall. Dick appears in the doorway, still wearing the dinosaur pajamas he’d put on when Alfred put him to bed half an hour ago.  
  
“Hey, chum,” Bruce says, picking up his head. Great, now the kid is here to witness his guardian’s existential crisis, as if he wasn’t already aware of how ill-equipped Bruce is for the new role he bestowed upon himself. Lovely. “What are you doing up?”  
  
Dick hangs on the doorway. “I’m thirsty.”  
  
Bruce looks to Alfred in a panic. Thankfully, Alfred takes over and offers Dick some apple juice. (Bruce makes a note of that. Kids like apple juice. That’s some solid knowledge. It’s not enough to get him through any stretch of time with the kid, but it’s _something.)_  
  
“Relax,” Alfred tells Bruce after he’s sent Dick back to bed, apple juice in hand. “You may play the part of a fool, but you are no idiot.”  
  
“Thank you?”  
  
“I had no children of my own, but I managed to do an adequate job raising you, didn’t I? Aside from the poor decision-making skills and lack of emotional maturity, I’d say I excelled, even.”  
  
“You do realize that all of your compliments are just nicely worded insults, right?”  
  
Alfred chuckles and sets Bruce with his trademark _I’m Giving Some Good Advice Here, So You’d Better Listen Up_ look. “Trust your instincts, Master Bruce. You are a smart man. You will figure this out eventually.”  
  
If only Alfred’s faith was contagious.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Bruce doesn’t stop thinking about what Bruce told him the other night. So what if Bruce is doomed to be a crappy guardian? He got himself into this situation, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t see it through. If he’s doing this thing, he’s doing it right. And, in Bruce’s experience, doing things right always starts with a proper education.  
  
“I’m going out,” he tells Alfred after finding the old man in the laundry room, doing a load of Dick’s laundry. Alfred scrubs Dick’s shirt with a stain remover pen, trying to get out the spaghetti stains from lunch.  
  
“Where are you off to?”  
  
“The bookstore.”  
  
“Lovely! Would you mind taking the young master with you?”  
  
That...wasn’t part of the plan. It’s the exact opposite of the plan, actually. How is Bruce supposed to take care of a child _during_ his mission to learn how to take care of a child? “Wouldn’t he be happier if he stayed here with you?”  
  
Alfred tosses the stain-free shirt into the washer and pours in a cup of homemade fabric softener. “Undoubtedly he would, but I have plans.”  
  
“Plans? Since when do you have plans?”  
  
“Since now. And unfortunately, those plans will make me unavailable for the next few hours.”  
  
“You’re making that up.”  
  
“I am not.”  
  
“Prove it.”  
  
“Take the boy to the bookstore with you, or I will turn everything you own pink.”  
  
Bruce ends up taking Dick with him—of his _own volition,_ thank you very much. The bell atop the door frame heralds their arrival at Gotham Book Barn. Bruce and Alfred are partial to collecting early edition classics from antique bookstores, but antique bookstores don’t carry handbooks for not-quite-parents in crisis, so this place will have to do.  
  
Bruce looks down at Dick. “Can you read?”  
  
“I’m eight.”  
  
“Is that a no?”  
  
Dick rolls his eyes, but there’s no real frustration in it. More like amusement at Bruce’s obvious struggling, which—fine. “Yeah, I can read.”  
  
“Perfect. Why don’t you go pick out some books, then?” He gestures to the kid’s section across the store. “I’ll meet you back here in a bit.”  
  
Dick doesn’t budge. “Mom says I’m not supposed to be alone at stores. That’s how kids get kidnapped.” That’s...a good point, actually. Especially in a city like Gotham, where even the sweet old lady next door is almost always a crook in disguise.  
  
Bruce ends up following Dick around the children’s section while he picks out books, handing each one to Bruce to hold. Bruce never specified how many to buy, so he doesn’t stop Dick when they pass two dozen. How many books does an eight-year-old need, anyway? Now that he thinks of it, it’s not like Bruce has gone out of his way to buy the kid many toys or things to entertain himself with aside from watching television all day. He should do something about that.  
  
Bruce waits patiently until he has a good-sized stack in his arms. Dick turns to face him. “I’m done.”  
  
“Great. Let’s go.” Bruce leads him over to the section they came here for, checking every few seconds to make sure Dick is still trailing behind him. The shelf of parenting books is intimidating, each spine detailing yet another aspect of child-rearing that Bruce has found himself woefully unprepared for.  
  
_So You Just Became a Foster Parent—What Now?_  
  
_The Joy of Parenting: A Survival Guide._ _  
_ _  
_ _A Child Safety Crash Course For Parents in Crisis._ _  
_ _  
_ _Trauma and the Undeveloped Mind: How to Console Your Traumatized Child._ _  
_ _  
_ _How to Not Screw Up Your Child’s Life._  
  
Bruce ends up picking out quite a few—hopefully enough to get him through Dick’s high school graduation. The boy himself has been uncharacteristically quiet while Bruce browses, looking between Bruce’s knitted brow and the rows of books before him. Bruce selects five more.  
  
“You’re not good at this, are you?” Dick asks. He looks up at Bruce from a backbend, because heaven _forbid_ the kid sits still for sixty seconds straight.  
  
“At what?”  
  
“Taking care of a kid.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Bruce says truthfully. A blind housefly could figure that much out. What’s he going to do, lie to the kid?  
  
Dick’s curiosity doesn’t dip. “Then why’d you do it?” He rolls out of the backbend, looking at Bruce intently. Do all children stare this much, or is it exclusively a Dick habit? That will be the first thing he researches when they return to the manor.  
  
“You needed a home.”  
  
“So do a lot of kids. Why me?”  
  
“Because...because I know what it’s like to lose someone important. No one should have to go through that alone.” No child should go through that at _all,_ but the world never claimed to be merciful, did it?  
  
Dick simply nods, as if Bruce just confirmed that the sky is blue. His eyes flick down to the stack of books in Bruce’s arms. “And you think those’ll help?”  
  
“Honestly? I don’t know. I hope they do.”  
  
“It’s okay, I know you’re doing your best.”  
  
Bruce’s mouth twitches into a sad smile. He kneels down so he’s at Dick’s level, eye to eye with the boy. “I’m sorry I’m not better at this. I’ve never even babysat before, to be truthful. I have no _clue_ how to care for a child, let alone one who’s been through as much as you have. But...maybe we can figure it out together?”  
  
While the cashier wrangles their three hundred dollars’ worth of books into paper bags sturdy enough to get them across the parking lot, Bruce checks his watch. It’s past lunchtime. He looks down at Dick, who’s resting his chin on the counter and clicking his teeth like a piranha. “Are you hungry?”  
  
Dick’s eyes light up. “Can we go to McDonald’s?”  
  
Bruce grimaces internally, but nods anyway. If clogging his arteries with greasy burgers is what it takes to be a good guardian, then he’s willing to make that sacrifice. “I don’t see why not.”  
  
He might as well have announced a trip to Disneyworld with the way Dick starts bouncing in place, suddenly full of even _more_ energy than he already had. (Is his blood made out of energy drinks? Maybe Bruce should look up ADHD symptoms when they get home, just in case.) “Can I get a toy?”  
  
“Of course you can.” Now the kid will have a ton of books _and_ a new toy. That’s a parenting victory if Bruce has ever seen one.

* * *

  
  
_Two tiny hands, a pair of eyes // An unsung melody is mine for safekeeping // And I will guard it with my life // I'd hang the moon for it to shine on you sleeping_  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim brings his daughter, Barbara, over for a playdate. One of Bruce’s books mentioned that it’s important for young children to develop strong bonds with peers, and—as far as Bruce is aware—Dick hasn’t made very many school friends. None, really. Being the new kid in the middle of the school year, _and_ an ex-circus performer at that...suffice to say that Gotham Academy’s attendees are as shrewd as they are predictable.  
  
It’s taken a few tries to get Barbara and Dick to enjoy each other’s company, what with Barbara still riding on the momentum of her eleventh birthday and reluctant to spend her time with a third grader. A turning point came on the third visit when Dick told her about the indoor trampoline Bruce had installed the weekend before, and suddenly Barbara wasn’t so interested in her book anymore. By the end of the day, a real friendship was forged. Bruce is just happy that Dick finally has someone besides Alfred whom he can talk to.  
  
“Hi, Mister Gordon! Bye, Mister Gordon.” Dick grabs Barbara by the hand and the two of them run upstairs to Dick’s room, Dick already talking a mile a minute about his new Pokémon game.  
  
Jim and Bruce sit in the parlor, drinking tea. “How is the Zucco investigation going?” Bruce asks.  
  
“It’s slow-going, but we’re circling it. We retrieved a brief video on an audience member’s cell phone that at least puts him at the scene.”  
  
“Is it enough for a case?”  
  
“Not yet, but it’s something.” Jim sips his tea, picking poppy seeds off of his lemon cookie. “How are things with the kid? Any progress?”  
  
“It was a rocky start, but I’m figuring it out just fine.”  
  
Alfred’s laughter can be heard all the way from the kitchen, making Bruce grimace. “Okay, it’s still rocky,” he confesses. “I have no _idea_ how to connect with him.”  
  
Jim’s mustache twitches with amusement. “The great Bruce Wayne can’t get along with an eight-year-old?”  
  
“It’s harder than it looks, trust me. He’s so...animated around other people. But with me, it’s like he senses how unqualified I am for this job.”  
  
“He’s a kid, Bruce. All you have to do is spend a little time with him and you’re golden.”  
  
“Except I don’t know how to _do_ that. All Dick does is play outside and talk about something called _Kim Possible._ We have nothing in common.” Not when it comes to hobbies, anyway. On the trauma front, they’re practically twins.  
  
“Have you tried...you know, _talking_ to him? Like a person?”  
  
Bruce huffs. “Of course I talk to him, but it rarely goes anywhere. He’s too much like me.”  
  
“Boring?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Stubborn?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Emotionally constipated?”  
  
“Are you done?” Bruce rolls his eyes while Jim snickers. “He’s...closed off. Sheltered.”  
  
“He seemed fine to me.”  
  
“With superficial things, sure. But any mention of his life before and he shuts down.”  
  
One of the parenting books told Bruce that a good way to bond with a new foster child was by taking an interest in their life. Bruce tracked down an old Flying Graysons recording online and offered to watch it with Dick, but he might as well have offered him a dead hamster. Dick threw the DVD against the wall and stomped upstairs, ignoring Bruce’s protests for him to come back.  
  
The next morning, Dick came downstairs as if the previous night never happened. Bruce hasn’t brought it up again, and neither has Dick.  
  
“That’s nothing unusual,” says Jim. “He’s been through a lot.’  
  
“I’ll say. He’s still grieving not only his parents, but his whole _life._ He lost his family, his home, his innocence, and now he’s stuck with _me,_ of all people. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to go from a life in the circus to puttering around this giant house with only me and Alfred for company.”  
  
“Doesn’t he have any friends?”  
  
“Aside from Barbara, not that I know of. The kids at Gotham Academy can be very...elitist. They treat him like an outsider.”  
  
Jim’s eyes trail up to the ceiling, right where Dick’s room hangs above them. The kids can be heard stomping around and laughing, playing whatever game they’re up to now. “Poor little guy.”  
  
“Was it a mistake bringing him to live with me?”  
  
A sigh. “Bruce—”  
  
“I mean it, Jim. My world is no environment for someone his age. I’m just going to do more harm than good in the long run.”  
  
“You’re just not used to it, is all. Start small and work your way up from there. Why don’t you do an activity together?”  
  
“I took him to the bookstore.” That counts, right?  
  
Jim gives him a look. “No kid wants to hang out at a _bookstore,_ Bruce. When Barbara was Dick’s age, we spent almost every weekend down at the softball field where I’d hit her fly balls until sundown. Me? I hate softball. Bad knees, and all. But you don’t do it for you, you do it for the kid. Make him feel seen.”  
  
Make him feel _seen?_ That’s it? Bruce looks at Dick every day and the only thing accomplished from that is Bruce sending Dick back upstairs most mornings because his pants are inside-out.  
  
In all honesty, Bruce has no clue what Jim meant by “an activity.” He spends some time meditating on it, waiting for an answer to drop from the sky and show him the path to righteousness. What do eight-year-olds even like? There’s the obvious, but Bruce is far from a circus acrobat, and he’s not aiming for a repeat of the DVD calamity. What do normal kids do in their free time? Football? Minecraft? Staring out the window and reminiscing about the good times before their childhood trauma struck?  
  
Bruce takes the tickets that mysteriously appear on his nightstand the next morning as a sign from the heavens—or at least from an angel named Alfred Pennyworth.  
  
Bruce knocks on the open doorway of Dick’s bedroom, tickets in hand. Dick is playing with his action figures on the floor. “Hey. Want to go to the zoo today?”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The last time Bruce came to the Gotham City Zoo, he was thirteen years old. It was during his ten-year mourning phase, in which Alfred tried everything and anything he could think of to bring a smile back to his young charge’s face. It didn’t work, but Bruce mildly enjoyed the exotic bird exhibit. He still has photographs from that day in an album somewhere, filled with posed images of a sullen Bruce and an Alfred who would trade his soul if it meant getting Bruce to smile again.  
  
God—for all their emotional similarities, Dick and Bruce truly are opposites, aren’t they? Bruce dwells on his grief, pulls it to the forefront of himself and holds it there desperately. He spends his days taunted by fear that if he stops, for even a second, and lets himself embrace the present, he’ll forget the past entirely. Gotham has already moved on from the deaths of the Waynes, now that Bruce has matured enough to maintain their legacy on his own. The Martha Wayne Foundation does its job, but does anyone stop to remember the namesake anymore? Does anyone still think about her?  
  
If Bruce lets himself be happy, will he forget too?  
  
Dick doesn’t appear to have that problem. He grieves, that much is clear. Every time he mentions his parents, Bruce can see the pain building behind his eyes, the way it shuts Dick down in seconds from a bouncing child to a boy whose soul has been carved right out of his body. The only difference is that Dick compartmentalizes his grief better than Bruce ever could; he pushes it back and lets himself enjoy what childhood he has left, pretending that everything is okay even when nothing is.  
  
Is that healthy or unhealthy? Every time Bruce thinks maybe he should talk to Dick about it, he chickens out.  
  
So now they’re at the zoo. Will it help? Probably not. But Bruce is desperate.  
  
Dick likes the tigers. Bruce knows this because the kid _won’t shut up about it._ He talks about the tigers when they’re looking at the flamingos, when they’re watching the sea lion show, when they’re feeding the goats at the petting zoo.  
  
“And did you know that tigers are the biggest cat species in the whole world? And they’re nocturnal, which means they sleep during the day and play at night. And did you know that they can live to be almost twenty-five years old? And did you know that—”  
  
“Oh, look,” Bruce says dully, “the tigers.”  
  
Dick squeals and races for the exhibit. He would have slammed right into the glass if Bruce hadn’t grabbed the back of his shirt and held him back. Dick settles for pressing his nose to the glass cage, watching the two Bengal tigers milling around inside like they’re the most incredible things on Earth. You’d think a kid who grew up in the circus would be used to extraordinary oddities by now.  
  
“They’re so _cool,”_ Dick breathes. “We used to have a tiger at Haly’s named Coconut, but she died a long time ago.” He looks back at Bruce, his eyes sparkling. “We can get one, right, Bruce? You can afford a tiger.”  
  
“You’re not getting a tiger.”  
  
“What about an elephant?”  
  
“Where would we even put an elephant?”  
  
“In the garage.”  
  
“We’re not getting an elephant.” Maybe a dog, if the kid really wants a pet that badly, but not for another year, at least. One new family member at a time. Bruce snaps some photos of the tigers with his cell phone. Dick can be content with two-dimensional tigers, for now.  
  
“I had an elephant,” Dick says. He’s cartwheeling around Bruce now, uncaring of the stares he gets from the other zoo visitors.  
  
“Did you, now?”  
  
“Mm-hm. Her name was Zitka. I mean, she wasn’t _my_ elephant or anything, but she liked me a lot. They let me feed her sometimes.”  
  
This might be the most that Dick has ever talked about Haly’s in one sitting without falling into a depressed slump two words in. Bruce is almost afraid to push his luck, but Jim _did_ say to talk to the kid, get to know his interests. “What was it like, living there?”  
  
“It was...I dunno. It was home.” He’s stopped cartwheeling. “Mom and Dad homeschooled me. I spent all day playing around with the animals, practicing routines and stuff.”  
  
“You must miss it a lot.”  
  
Dick nods, his gaze fixed on his shoes. “It’s a lot different living in Gotham with you guys, staying in one place. Longest I ever stayed in one city was two months, and that was just ‘cause the train broke down.”  
  
Bruce can’t imagine the misery Dick must feel every day, living here but wishing he were somewhere else. The loneliness of it. “I’m sorry, Dick.”  
  
Dick shrugs. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and tips forward into a handstand. “S’okay. I like living with you and Alfred, even if you _are_ a little old.”  
  
“I’m only in my mid-twenties.”  
  
“Yeah. That’s old.” Dick’s melancholy has already faded, pushed back to make way for enthusiasm. He truly is a compartmentalization master. “Can we go see the water buffalos?”  
  
“Hang on, I haven’t finished reading the plaque yet.” Bruce is bent in front of the cage, scanning the plaque detailing the tigers’ lives before coming to the zoo and fun facts about the species.  
  
“Ugh, you’re _so_ old.”  
  
“This is good information. Did you know that Bengal tigers typically live alone in the wild? They don’t have prides like lions do.”  
  
Dick flips right-side-up again, bounding over to Bruce and tugging on his hand. Dick’s own hands are so much smaller than Bruce’s, engulfed by just one of his palms. “Come on, please? We’ll never see all of the animals if you spend a million years reading about them every time.” Grudgingly, Bruce gives in and follows. Dick doesn’t let go of his hand. “Can we come to the zoo again soon?”  
  
“Sure, kiddo. We’ll come here as often as you like.”  
  
“Every day?”  
  
“Maybe not that often.”  
  
“Then how about Tuesdays and Thursdays?”  
  
“I was thinking once a month and twice during the summer, but we can discuss it.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Bruce is jotting notes in the margins of his _Single Parenting For Dummies_ book when he hears an earth-shattering crash, followed by crying. Bruce has never moved from one room to another faster in his life.  
  
The living room chandelier is on the floor, surrounded by shattered pieces of glass. It’s been snapped right off the chain. In the middle of the mess is Dick, clutching his arm with tears streaming down his face. Bruce is at his side instantly.  
  
“Dickie, are you okay?”  
  
There’s a cut on Dick’s forehead from the glass, plus some more little ones on his arms and knees. The boy doesn’t answer, just sobs into Bruce’s shirt. Not that Bruce needs an explanation to see the problem—Dick’s arm is twisted, bent halfway down his forearm like the makings of a second elbow.  
  
Bruce nearly calls for Alfred, but remembers that he left for the dentist twenty minutes ago. It’s up to Bruce alone to handle this one. He forces his racing heart to calm, takes a few deep breaths. “C’mere, sweetheart.” He lifts Dick gingerly in his arms, being careful not to bump his broken arm. “Dr. Thompkins will fix you right up.”  
  
Dick’s tears slow by the time they reach the clinic, but the ever-present grimace suggests that the pain hasn’t dulled one bit. At least he doesn’t seem frightened about going to the doctor. When Bruce was a child, getting him to his checkup was an all-day chore with the way he struggled. It makes sense that Dick would be used to doctors. Growing up among acrobats isn’t the safest lifestyle, after all.  
  
“So this is the Dick Grayson I’ve been hearing all about,” Leslie says upon walking into the exam room. She holds her hand out to the boy. He shakes it tentatively. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. I’m Leslie.”  
  
“Leslie’s been the Wayne family physician for years,” Bruce explains. “She’s the best Gotham has to offer.”  
  
“I’d try and be modest, but we all know that would be a lie. Now, let’s see what we can do about that arm, huh?”  
  
Leslie is as gentle as Bruce has always known her to be, starting with a painkiller and explaining everything as she goes. She asks Dick questions as she starts tending to his scrapes, inquiring about what it was like living at the circus and how many countries he’s toured through. She tactfully skips over That Day and goes right to asking about what it’s like living with Bruce.  
  
“Bruce is cool,” Dick says while Leslie removes a tiny piece of glass from his elbow. “He let me have ice cream after bedtime yesterday.”  
  
“That _does_ sound cool,” she agrees. She holds out her box of band-aids. “Last one, kiddo. Make it count.” Dick picks the tiger stripe one, thus completing the collection of animal print band-aids decorating his battered body. “Now, let’s see what we can do about that arm.”  
  
Leslie is swift but methodical as she works on setting Dick’s arm. Dick doesn’t seem to mind; the painkillers are doing their job. That, and Leslie is the Peitho of medical professionals. Even the most terrified children are put at ease in minutes by her calming bedside manner.  
  
The spell doesn’t work on Bruce, unfortunately, who can’t help but hover. He watches everything Leslie does with the utmost scrutiny, questioning her at every turn. “You should check his head again. He might have a concussion.”  
  
“Thank you, med school dropout.” That makes Dick giggle.  
  
“Are you absolutely sure that last cut didn’t need stitches?”  
  
Leslie shrugs. “Pretty sure, but what do I know? I’m only the best doctor in Gotham City.”  
  
“You should check him for internal bleeding.”  
  
“Are you going to be like this the entire time?”  
  
Leslie lets Dick pick the color of his cast—a vibrant red, he goes with, and Bruce can’t help imagining little kid blood soaking the floor. God, he shouldn’t be this shaken. Maybe that extra cup of coffee this morning was a mistake.  
  
Dick adores his new fashion statement, grinning like he won a million bucks once it’s secured around his arm. “Hey, B, will you sign my cast when we get home?”  
  
Bruce smiles. At least Dick is immune to the anxiety shuddering through Bruce’s body. “I think we’ll have to wait a bit for it to dry, but I promise I’ll sign it after that.”  
  
Leslie prescribes some light painkillers to take care of the soreness while Dick’s arm heals. Dick promises no more swinging on chandeliers, and the pair bids Leslie farewell.  
  
Halfway home, Dick—in the _backseat_ this time (Thanks, Alfred)—stops picking at his bandages to look at Bruce. “I’m really sorry about the chandelier. I didn’t mean to break it.”  
  
“I know you didn’t. But you understand why I was upset, right? What you did was dangerous. You could have been killed.”  
  
“I’m not scared of heights.”  
  
“I know you aren’t—that’s the whole problem. This isn’t the circus, Dick. There aren’t any safety nets to catch you when you fall.” He doesn’t miss Dick’s flinch in the rearview mirror. He changes tracks. “I don’t want you playing like that anymore, okay? No more swinging from the rafters or sliding down banisters. If you want to get your energy out, you can play outside.”  
  
Dick slumps in his seat. “Fine.”  
  
“Good.” That was handled well, right? He stayed firm but didn’t crush the kid’s spirit. Bruce is a parenting _genius._ “What were you doing up there, anyway?”  
  
“I’m a Grayson,” Dick says, like it’s obvious. “Graysons fly.”  
  
Bruce...is an idiot. Of _course._  
  
Since the day he came to the manor, Dick has been a bundle of energy, hopping from one obstacle to the next: climbing trees, cartwheeling down the stairs, perching on top of the refrigerator like an owl. He was a jackrabbit that day at the zoo, zipping around like he ran on rechargeable batteries. Bruce could hardly keep up.  
  
Of _course_ Dick is going stir-crazy cooped up in that house all day. How could Bruce have missed it? Is he that oblivious?  
  
The boy is an _acrobat,_ for goodness’ sake. For the past eight years, Dick has spent every day running around the circus, swinging from the trapeze, riding elephants. To go from that lifestyle to Bruce’s far less glamorous one in a dusty old house would drive _anyone_ nuts.  
  
That night while Dick is video chatting with Barbara to show off his cast, Bruce makes some calls. He doesn’t tell Dick about the secret project, keeping it under wraps for the _agonizing_ three-day weekend until the construction crew arrives while Dick is at school on Monday. The workers spend all day setting it all up, finishing nearly an hour before Gotham Elementary lets out. Bruce tips each worker five hundred to show his gratitude.  
  
“How was school, chum?” Bruce tries not to let his eagerness show. Alfred hangs Dick’s backpack on the hook by the door with a knowing smile.  
  
“It was _awesome,”_ Dick says. “Check out my cast!” He thrusts his arm in Bruce’s face, showing off the scribbled names of his classmates. “The teacher let everyone sign it during art and when I told them how I broke the chandelier, they were so impressed! Well, the teacher said it was dangerous and I shouldn’t have been up there. But everyone else thought it was awesome!”  
  
“Sounds like a lot of fun. Before you start on your homework, would you mind coming with me for a minute? I want to show you something.”  
  
He leads Dick to the gym—a room previously reserved for Bruce’s daily workouts. Dick got a brief look at it on his first tour of the manor, but he hasn’t come here since. Bruce opens the door and gestures for Dick to go in ahead of him.  
  
Dick stops in his tracks. He looks up at the 25-foot trapeze, stunned. When he turns back to Bruce, there are tears speckled in his eyes. “Is it...I mean, can I—”  
  
“It’s all yours,” Bruce assures him. He puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I had it made as close to Haly’s as I could. I know you can’t exactly use it yet until your arm heals, so I ordered some playground equipment for the backyard to keep you occupied in the meantime. There’s a swing set and a couple of slides for you to play on until the cast comes off.”  
  
He’s never seen Dick so happy. “You got all this for me?”  
  
“You deserve to feel at home here, Dick. And I’m here to provide whatever you need.” He appraises the trapeze again. “Of course, we’ll have to get it checked out to make sure it’s safe to be used, just in case. There’s also the matter of supplies like a proper safety net, chalk, and hand grips, which I’ve already ordered and should be arriving in—”  
  
Dick hugs Bruce so tightly it knocks the wind out of him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”  
  
Bruce’s hands hover awkwardly for a moment before he hugs Dick back. (Carefully, like he’s holding a butterfly. Ever since the chandelier incident, Bruce has been acutely aware of how _small_ Dick is. How breakable.) “I’m glad you like it.”  
  
Dick lifts his head, grinning so widely it’s a miracle his face hasn’t split in half. “Can I see the swing set?”  
  
_Technically_ Dick should be starting his homework right about now, but fifteen minutes on the swing can’t hurt. Bruce ruffles Dick’s hair. “Sure, chum. I’ll even push you, if you want.”  
  
Dick hugs Bruce again even tighter, if that’s possible at this point. “You’re the best.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Bruce is fetching his third coffee of the day when he finds Dick and Alfred at the kitchen counter, surrounded by a warzone of dirtied mixing bowls and spilled ingredients. Dick is standing on a chair to reach the counter that is too tall for him, dressed in one of Alfred’s aprons that is also too tall for him. He’s been dusted head to toe in flour, somehow managing to get it in his hair and eyebrows.  
  
Bruce approaches the mayhem with caution. “I see we’re doing an experiment?”  
  
“Indeed,” Alfred says with a wink in Dick’s direction. “The most delicious kind of experiment.”  
  
“And Alfie says I can eat the leftover dough when we’re done!” Dick pats a dough ball between his palms, squishing it like a lump of Play-Doh. He holds it up for Alfred’s inspection. “How’s this one?”  
  
Alfred appraises it with a hum. “Excellent work, Sous-Chef Grayson.”  
  
Dick grins at Bruce, showing off the gap from the tooth he lost last week. “I’m the sous-chef.”  
  
“I can see that. What is it you two are making, exactly?” His eyes roam the tray of half a dozen misshapen dough balls that Dick has crafted. Alfred is at the stove, stirring what looks like a simmering saucepan of custard.  
  
“I’m helping Alfred make galuški!”  
  
“And what is that?” The word sounds familiar, like something Bruce might have stumbled across during the research he did on Romani culture once he learned about Dick’s origins.  
  
Dick shrugs. “Dunno. My mom made it sometimes for holidays and stuff.” It’s nice to see that he’s getting back in touch with his roots. Bruce has been meaning to learn some Romani phrases to try and help Dick feel more at home. “Want to help?” Dick holds out a sticky glob of dough.  
  
“You don’t want my help in the kitchen, trust me. The best I can do is fry an egg.”  
  
“Don’t forget the time you boiled a whole pot of water by yourself, Master Bruce. I never thought I’d live to see the day.” Alfred wipes away a fake tear. “Truly inspirational.”  
  
Bruce shrugs. “I’ve had a butler to feed me my entire life. I never had any motivation to learn kitchen skills.”  
  
“What’ll you do when Alfred takes a vacation?” Dick asks.  
  
“That is precisely why I haven’t taken a day off in fourteen years,” Alfred says. “I fear that the poor man would starve to death by the time I return.”  
  
Dick giggles. He rolls another dough ball. “That’s okay, B. You can just be our taste tester when it’s done.”  
  
Bruce wipes some of the flour from Dick’s nose with his sleeve. “I can’t wait to try it, Sous-Chef Grayson.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
_“Tony Zucco is in custody.”_  
  
Bruce should be feeling something at those words—joy, relief, anticipation to watch that piece of scum locked away behind bars for the remainder of his worthless existence. Instead, all Bruce can feel is apprehension.  
  
“How long will his sentence be?”  
  
_“Sixty years, at the very least,”_ Jim reports. _“This guy has connections to enough murder and arson cases to put him away for the rest of his life.”_  
  
“And what about his associates? What are the chances that they’ll come after Dick?”  
  
Wayne Manor has some of the best security in the entire northeast, but there are plenty of other opportunities for Dick to run into danger. It’s hard enough watching the kid leave for school every morning, knowing that he’ll be at the mercy of the world for the next seven hours without Bruce to protect him. Bruce has spent every day until now wondering in the back of his mind when Zucco would return to finish the job on the littlest Flying Grayson.  
  
_“I doubt you have anything to worry about. Half of Zucco’s buddies sold him out as soon as they knew we had evidence against him. His inner circle has less loyalty than a game of schoolyard kickball.”_  
  
“Will Dick have to testify?”  
  
_“We have more than enough witness testimonies to make this an easy case. I’ll call you if that changes, but for now, I’d say you and Dick can rest easy.”_  
  
Bruce releases a breath. He hasn’t felt relief like this since the day Joe Chill was arrested. “Thanks, Jim. I appreciate all that you’ve done for Dick by taking on this case.”  
  
_“No worries, Bruce. Have a good night.”_  
  
“They caught Zucco,” Bruce tells a snooping Alfred after he hangs up.  
  
“Thank heavens.” Alfred goes back to dusting the dustless mantle. “I hope that monster rots in prison until the day he dies.”  
  
_You and me, both._  
  
Dick is far less celebratory about the news. Bruce waits until bedtime to tell him, figuring that it would be better to give him time to process than springing it on him mid-chicken nugget. Dick is in his favorite firefighter pajamas tonight, his hair shiny and damp from his bath. He picks at his blue comforter, nodding with vacant eyes. “So...he’s going to jail?”  
  
“I promise you, that man will go away for a _long_ time. He won’t be hurting anyone else ever again.”  
  
“What’s gonna happen to him?”  
  
Bruce frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Are they gonna...like, kill him? Like the really bad guys get?”  
  
“I...don’t think so.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because…” Bruce is _not_ qualified for this conversation. “I guess the judge didn’t think the death penalty was necessary for this situation.”  
  
“Not necessary? But he”—Dick’s breath hitches—“he _killed_ them. Didn’t the judge know that? Don’t they know what he did?”  
  
“Yes, but—”  
  
“Then why isn’t he getting what he deserves?” Dick sits up, clutching his blanket in a white-knuckled grip. “He killed my _parents._ He took them away from me, just because Mr. Haly didn’t want to give him money.” Dick’s voice breaks, tears spilling over after building up for so long. “Why does _he_ get to live after what he did?”  
  
The parenting books didn’t cover this at _all._ “Dick, it’s…” What is he supposed to say to that? Can Bruce really look his— _this_ child in the eye and tell him that he shouldn’t be furious at the man who took everything away from him? When Bruce lost his own parents, he spent every day fantasizing about what he would do if he got his hands on their killer.  
  
“I know how you feel, Dick. Really, I do. But sometimes...sometimes we don’t always get the result that we want. And I know how much that must hurt, but try and remember that no matter what, you got _justice._ Your parents’ killer is behind bars and that’s something to be happy about.”  
  
Dick shakes his head. All of him is shaking. “He deserves worse.”  
  
“Maybe he does. Unfortunately, that isn’t for you or me to decide. Sometimes justice means that even if a dangerous person isn’t getting the punishment we think they deserve, at least we can sleep at night knowing that they can’t make anyone else hurt the way we do.”  
  
Dick sniffles. He leans toward Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t even have to think about it before he’s wrapping the kid up in a hug. “I miss them.”  
  
“I know you do.” He kisses the top of Dick’s head. “I know.”

* * *

_I can heal, and I can breathe // 'Cause I can feel myself believe // Everything changes // Oh, my heart's at the wheel now_  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tonight is Dick’s first gala since he came to live at Wayne Manor, and Bruce is trying his best not to panic. Dick has never been to an event before that didn’t have floors dusted in peanut shells, so there’s no way to predict how this night will go. It’s why Bruce can’t help but worry.  
  
He still remembers _his_ first party, years ago when his parents were still breathing and all that Bruce had to concern himself with was not spilling grape juice on his Armani suit. The venue was crowded, hot, and miserable. The only reason Bruce consented to go to the next one was that his parents brought Kate along. She made the whole thing bearable.  
  
At least Dick seems to be enjoying himself, so long as no one pinches his cheeks or gets too in his face. He’s more than used to large crowds—thrives in this environment, really. And isn’t a Wayne gala just a slightly more expensive circus?  
  
In place of concessions are hors d'oeuvres that cost twelve dollars each despite the bottle cap-sized portions. Instead of a tent, the Wayne Foundation has rented out the entirety of Gotham’s extravagant Chelsea Plaza to make room for their hundreds of guests. And in place of circus animals, the event is packed with penny-pinching millionaires who use these parties as excuses to get tipsy and dance the night away for the price of the smallest donation they can make while still being considered philanthropic.  
  
“It’s so nice to see you again, Brucie,” someone purrs in Bruce’s ear. A blonde woman in a _very_ revealing red dress takes him by the arm. Bruce couldn’t recall her name if you put a gun to his head. Margaret? Madeline? Meloni? Whoever she is, she can’t be fewer than four drinks in, and the party only started an hour ago. “It’s been _months_ since I’ve seen you at one of these things. You’re not getting bored with us, are you?”  
  
Bruce doesn’t lose the playboy smile. “I’m afraid I’ve been busy, lately.”  
  
“Oh? Don’t tell me there’s someone _special_ occupying your time nowadays.” She bats her eyes, her fingers tracing the curve of his bicep.  
  
A circus, indeed.  
  
Bruce clears his throat. “Yes, actually, there is.” He takes the opportunity to put space between himself and the woman, coaxing Dick out from his hiding place behind Bruce’s legs. Dick may adore adoring crowds, but having them worship you from fifty feet below and having them talk to you directly in the form of lipstick-coated jackals are two entirely different things.  
  
“This is my foster son, Richard Grayson. He’s been living with me for the past six months.”  
  
Dick blushes. He fiddles with the collar of his tuxedo as he’s been doing all night, the bowtie getting looser with each tug until it hangs slightly down over his crisp button-down shirt. It was a struggle just to wrangle the tuxedo onto the kid in the first place until Bruce finally bribed him with Jolly Ranchers. Alfred gelled Dick’s hair back before they left, and it takes all of Bruce’s self-control not to take a picture.  
  
The woman forces a polite smile, but Bruce doesn’t miss the way she adjusts her dress, tugging it up so her cleavage looks less like it’s been laid out on a plate. She stoops to Dick’s height and holds out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Richard.”  
  
Dick reluctantly shakes her hand. “My friends call me Dick.”  
  
She blinks. “Yes, well...kids can be cruel.” She straightens up and sets her attention back on Bruce. “Wow, Bruce. I had no idea you were so...nurturing.” She might as well have said “old and crusty” with the way her nose wrinkles. Who knew that all it would take to get shallow partygoers to leave Bruce alone was Dick’s cherubic face? He should have been bringing Dick to these events _months_ ago.  
  
Bruce reaches out to ruffle Dick’s hair. “Dick is a great kid. It’s been wonderful having him in the house.”  
  
“Right.” Margaret-Madeline-Meloni pretends to spot someone across the room. “Oh, if you’ll excuse me?” She walks off, swiping a fresh martini from a passing tray as she goes.  
  
“Are you the president of Gotham or something?” Dick asks, scratching the inside of his cast with a fork that Bruce is almost positive wasn’t in his hand a minute ago. Bruce takes the fork away.  
  
“What did I tell you about putting sharp things in your cast?” Dick is scheduled to get the cast off next week, thankfully. He’s been complaining about itchiness for ages, sticking pencils and rulers down there despite Leslie’s orders. Yesterday Bruce caught him five seconds away from shredding his skin with a fondue skewer. “And Gotham doesn’t have a president.”  
  
“Then what does it have?”  
  
“There’s a mayor.”  
  
“Are you the mayor?”  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
“Because that was, like, the hundredth person who’s talked to you tonight.”  
  
Bruce chuckles, wrapping an arm around Dick’s shoulders. “I’m not the mayor.”  
  
“Then why doesn’t anyone leave you alone?”  
  
“Because I have money, and in places like this, money is power. The closer you get to the money, the more power you have.”  
  
Dick makes a face. “So they only like you for your money?”  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“That’s dumb.”  
  
“It is, isn’t it?” Bruce sips his champagne. “How about you? Are you having a fun time?”  
  
Dick shrugs. “It’s okay.” Translation: _I hate it here but don’t want to be rude by saying so._  
  
“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of parties either. I promise we can duck out in a couple of hours.” He has to give a speech about the program the donations are going to, but after that, they’re home free.  
  
“Can I get some dessert?” Dick points at one of the many food tables set up around the venue, this one piled high with all sorts of cakes, meringues, and cookies.  
  
“Did you have any dinner yet?”  
  
“I had a bunch of those mac and cheese cupcakes.”  
  
It’s not an Alfred-worthy level of nutrition, but it’s good enough for Bruce. “Just stay where I can see you, okay?”  
  
Dick skips away towards the dessert table, ducking around partygoers in his path. It must be an awful drag, being the only kid here. Bruce at least had Kate to brave the dullest events with, while Dick has no one but Bruce for company. Maybe Oliver can bring Roy along next time, at least so Dick will have someone his own age to play with. It will be a reprieve for both Dick _and_ Bruce. You’ll never understand the true meaning of hell until an eight-year-old decides he wants to play Candyland with you for two hours straight.  
  
“Cute kid,” a familiar voice says, and Bruce’s body warms on instinct.  
  
Selina saunters up, her black cocktail dress as enchanting as the rest of her. In all honesty, Bruce doesn’t know if she was invited to the gala or if she simply talked her way in like she does everywhere else. He doesn’t ask. She’s wearing a diamond bracelet that he’s certain she didn’t have the first few times he spotted her making her rounds around the ballroom, no doubt scoping the place for the finest pieces she could get her hands on.  
  
Bruce doesn’t ask about that either.  
  
“When I saw in the gossip headlines that you’d taken in a foster kid, I thought it was just another rumor.” She’s sucking on a lollipop she must have swiped from the dessert table. Her lips and tongue are blue, not that she seems to notice or care.  
  
Bruce stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Well, it’s true,” he says lamely. “His name is Dick.”  
  
“So I overheard. Is he really from the circus like they say?”  
  
“He and his family were acrobats. His parents were murdered during a stunt, so I took him in.”  
  
“God, that’s awful.” Selina looks past him to where Dick is still at the dessert table, investigating a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. “Poor kitten. How’s he handling it?”  
  
“It was rough at first, but he’s adjusting well. His teacher said he’s becoming one of her top students.” Bruce can’t help the pride that slips into his voice, and Selina knows him too well not to notice.  
  
“Well, jeez. Six months with the kid and already he’s turned you into a softie.”  
  
“I’m not a softie.”  
  
“You’re softer than a bowl of whipped cream, honey. Who knew the untouchable Bruce Wayne was such a family man at heart?”  
  
“I’m _not._ I’m just...filling a role for a little while.” How little of a while that will be, he isn’t sure. Isn’t that the point of foster care? You have them for a bit, and then they’re gone. It’s not always a permanent placement.  
  
And yet, Bruce looks over at Dick who’s chattering happily about elephants to a guest who is only partially paying attention, and...god. The thought of letting go might as well be a physical blow. Only six months, and already Bruce can’t imagine his life without Dick in it.  
  
“Filling a role, huh?” Selina bites down on what remains of her lollipop, chewing on the crushed candy shell. “Then you must be one hell of an actor because, from the looks of it, you’re a natural. I wish I had a foster parent who looked at me the way you look at your kid.”  
  
“He’s not my—”  
  
“Hey, Bruce, check it out!” Dick comes bounding up to the pair carrying a plate stacked high with goodies. He’s got pink frosting all over his face and on the lapels of his jacket. “I got cake and cookies and cupcakes and macaroons—I didn’t even know what macaroons _were_ until now and they’re _awesome._ We should go to parties every weekend.”  
  
Bruce takes a handkerchief from his front pocket and pulls Dick closer, wiping frosting from his face. “I don’t know about _every_ weekend, but I can take you to more parties if you really want to.” Who knew that the key to every kid’s heart has been an extensive dessert spread all along?  
  
Dick splutters, batting Bruce away from his face. There’s still some frosting on his nose. Bruce licks his thumb and rubs it off. “Only the ones with good snacks.” Dick offers the plate to Bruce. “Want some?”  
  
“I’m good, thanks.”  
  
“I’ll take a cookie,” Selina says and steals a gingersnap. She holds her other hand out to Dick. “Selina Kyle. I’m a friend of Bruce’s.”  
  
Dick shakes her hand. “Your mouth is blue.”  
  
“It’s a fashion statement. And you’ve got frosting all over your clothes.”  
  
Dick grins. “It’s a fashion statement, too.”  
  
Selina gives Bruce a look that says, _See? Two seconds in and already the kid adores me. Eat your heart out, Wayne._  
  
Her eyes can be very talkative.  
  
“So, Dick, how are you liking the party?” she asks.  
  
“It’s boring. But I like the snacks.”  
  
“Well, duh, that’s the best part. It’s the only reason I bother crashing these things. My cats at home _love_ the caviar canapés.” She crams the rest of the cookie in her mouth, wiping the crumbs from her silk gloves. “Hey. Wanna play a game?”  
  
“What kind of game?”  
  
“You like hide and seek?”  
  
Dick bounces on his heels like a rocket about to take off. He looks to Bruce with wide eyes. “Can I, Bruce?”  
  
As if Bruce has any control over Selina’s schemes. “I don’t see why not. But don’t leave the ballroom, okay? Stay close to Selina and listen to what she says.”  
  
“Ugh, adults are so _boring,”_ Selina whispers to Dick, making him giggle. She starts unfastening her heels, leaning on Bruce’s shoulder for balance. “Don’t worry,” she tells him, her voice low so Dick can’t hear. “I’ll keep an eye on your kitten for you.”  
  
She gives her shoes to Bruce to hold, and Dick does the same with his plate of desserts. “Don’t eat the truffles,” Dick warns him. “I’m saving those for later.”  
  
Selina doesn’t let go of Bruce quite yet. “Leave a spot for me on your dance card, will you?” She winks.  
  
“Return the bracelet and maybe I will.”  
  
“I’m just borrowing it for a while. Scout’s honor.” She salutes, and then the two of them are off, giggling and dodging caterers as they run through the ballroom.  
  
Bruce sighs and tells himself that Dick’s happiness is worth the inevitable sugar crash later.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Bruce feels eyes on him.  
  
He wakes up with a start, squinting in the darkness of his bedroom. It can’t be later than two in the morning, moonlight shining in through the gap between his curtains and stenciling shadows on the walls. A small form hovers in the open doorway. (Bruce used to keep his door closed at night, but since Dick started living here, Bruce has taken to keeping it open in case he’s needed.)  
  
Bruce yawns, bunching his pillow under his head. He closes his eyes. “What do you need, chum?”  
  
“I had a bad dream,” comes the tiny voice.  
  
Makes sense. He’s a kid. Kids have bad dreams—and that’s not even counting the ones who haven’t suffered a recent traumatic event. Dick has been complaining about nightmares for the last few weeks, but this is the first time he’s come to Bruce about it.  
  
His sluggish mind barely processing the action, Bruce lifts the edge of his blanket. “C’mon, kiddo.” He’s already half-asleep again, dancing on the edge of unconsciousness. Dick takes the offer without hesitation, snuggling up next to Bruce like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s a welcome warmth against Bruce’s side.  
  
That taken care of, Bruce covers Dick with the blanket and goes back to sleep.  
  
It’s not until morning that Bruce fully realizes what happened, but Dick doesn’t seem to notice or care. He goes about his morning routine as if nothing’s changed, telling Alfred about his mermaid dream over French toast and blueberries. Bruce shouldn’t be surprised. When he was Dick’s age, his solution to pesky dreams was running to his parents’ bedroom and cuddling up between them, safe where the ghouls couldn’t touch.  
  
Holy shit. Is Bruce a dad now? Is this what dads do? Bruce ponders this while he scolds Dick for blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk, and again when he’s helping Dick with the buttons on his school blazer. He’s not a father. Definitely not. No self-respecting person wants _Bruce Wayne_ for a dad. He’s not cut out for it, plain and simple, which was the whole _point_ of the foster situation. Letting himself get sucked into playing house would be going against everything Bruce told himself when this all started. It would be disrespecting John and Mary Grayson, who did the _real_ work of raising this incredible boy who Bruce is just lucky to know. What right does he have to swoop in and stake a claim to someone else’s child?  
  
He ends up calling Oliver after days of inner panic. “I think I’m a father.”  
  
_“You knocked someone up?”_  
  
“I’m talking about Dick. I think I’m a father figure to him.”  
  
It’s been a week and change since that first nightmare-induced snuggling session, and Dick appears to have taken it as the green light to escape to Bruce’s room every time he has a bad dream. Almost every night Bruce is awoken by a tiny bony body sliding in next to his, hogging the blankets and muttering a jumble of Romani and English in his sleep. Bruce would kick him out if he had the heart to do so, which he doesn’t.  
  
_“Oh.”_ A pause while Oliver scratches his goatee. (It’s either that, or he’s brushing a porcupine two inches from the phone speaker.) _“Wasn’t that the whole point?”_  
  
“No. Maybe. I don’t know what I was trying to be, but it wasn’t a father. He already had a father.”  
  
_“And now he has another one,”_ Oliver says, as if the answer could truly be that simple. _“Lots of people have more than one father figure. That’s what stepdads are for, right? No harm.”_  
  
“But I don’t know how to _do_ that. I have no clue how to be a father to him.”  
  
_“Buddy, I think you’re already doing it.”_  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Master Bruce.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
_“Master Bruce.”_  
  
“What do you need, Alfred?” Bruce doesn’t look up from the jelly he’s trying to scrub off the surface of his desk. He should have known better than to let Dick play in his study yesterday.  
  
“I wanted to make sure you are aware of what next Sunday is.”  
  
“Sunday?” Bruce goes back, tries to recall. “Do I have an appointment for something?” He just had a dentist appointment last week, and Dick is up to date on all of his shots. Is there a business meeting he forgot to mark on his calendar?  
  
Alfred clicks his tongue. “Perhaps this will shed some light on the matter.” He places a slip of paper in front of Bruce.  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh._  
  
“Where did you get this?”  
  
“I found it in the wastebasket in Master Dick’s bedroom.”  
  
_Dear Parents,_ it reads. _You are cordially invited to a Father’s Day celebration in Ms. Reilly’s class at 1:30 on June 16th. If you can, please bring a store-bought snack such as chips, cupcakes, cookies, juice, etc. No peanuts or walnuts._  
  
That’s...that’s this Friday. It never even occurred to Bruce until now that Father’s Day was coming up. He supposes that was poor judgment on his part, but it was hard enough celebrating Dick’s birthday in March. No amount of cake or presents could erase the fact that Dick’s parents weren’t there to watch him turn nine years old. They glossed over Mother’s Day without much trouble, but Bruce’s chronic avoidance has once again swooped in to bite him on the ass.  
  
“He hasn’t told me anything about this,” Bruce says.  
  
“Nor I, sir. If I hadn’t found the invitation, I fear we wouldn’t have known at all.”  
  
“Should I go?”  
  
“I don’t know, should you?”  
  
“I’m not in the mood for your riddles, Alfred.”  
  
Alfred merely brushes imaginary lint from his pants. “And I was not the one who filled out the forms to become his legal guardian. I’ll leave you to figure this one out yourself.” He leaves, and Bruce is struck with the urge to ball up the invitation and throw it at the back of his head.  
  
Alfred does have a point, though. Bruce is the closest thing Dick has to a father figure right now. This is a puzzle for him to solve, and him alone.  
  
There’s the obvious choice, which would be to go. He got an invitation, he should go. End of story.  
  
But is that what _Dick_ would want? He wouldn’t have tossed the note if he wanted Bruce to attend, right? It would be presumptuous of Bruce to go, assuming the role of Dick’s father when the position has already been filled by someone who was undoubtedly leagues better at it. What right does Bruce have to pretend to be someone he’s not?  
  
He should respect Dick’s wishes and pretend he never saw the note. Toss it in the trash and forget about it. Let Dick decide for himself how Father’s Day is to be spent and go from there.  
  
But then Bruce imagines a little boy sitting alone at his desk and watching the other children with their fathers, finger painting and showing off their old math tests on the bulletin board of fame. He imagines Dick making Father’s Day crafts that will be gifted to no one, destined for a demise in the trash as soon as he gets home. He imagines the pity from the teacher, the parents, the children all watching little Dick Grayson sitting there alone with no company but the ghosts of his dead parents.  
  
Bruce’s heart pangs just thinking about it. Dick’s parents may be gone, but he shouldn’t have to endure aftershocks of that agony on every occasion he used to share with them for the rest of his life. Dick deserves to enjoy birthdays and anniversaries, Christmases and Halloweens, just like any other child. Bruce owes him at least that, right?  
  
So it’s either he shows up and upsets Dick by trying to replace his father, or he doesn’t go and Dick spends the day despairingly alone. Maybe he can talk Alfred into going in his place? Or maybe he can pull Dick out of school that day, just to avoid making the decision. They can stay home and watch movies without addressing the topic of Father’s Day until next year when they can give it another go.  
  
“Hey, Bruce?”  
  
Bruce stuffs the invitation under his desk before Dick can see. Dick has got a pencil in one hand and his homework notebook in the other. He strolls up to the desk, oblivious to Bruce’s millisecond of panic.  
  
“What’s up, chum?”  
  
“I need help with my spelling homework.”  
  
Homework. Bruce can handle that. “Sure, pal. Let’s have a look.”  
  
Dick comes over and shows him his list of half-written spelling words. “I can’t remember which ones have a ‘ph’ and which ones just have an F.”  
  
Simple enough. Bruce points at the top one. “For starters, there’s a Y in ‘physics.’” If only every problem were as easy to hack as third-grade spelling homework. Bruce would be on top of the world.  
  
Dick erases the word and corrects it, silently sounding it out as he goes.  
  
No time like the present, Bruce supposes. “Do you have any plans for this weekend?” he asks, exuding what he hopes is simple curiosity.  
  
“Nope.” Dick tilts the notebook so Bruce can see. “Is that right?”  
  
“Mm-hm. Next one has a ‘ph’ after the S.” Dick writes it in. “Want me to call Barbara’s father and set up a playdate?” Having Barbara over on Sunday will ensure that Dick isn’t lonely, at least. They can balance out the grief with friendship and homemade snacks.  
  
Dick shakes his head. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he tries to get his O perfectly round. “Her and her dad are going to a hockey game or something.”  
  
Crap. Bruce should have thought of that. Then again, would Dick even want to go to a sports game with Bruce? Dick mentioned how his parents had tickets for all three of them to see the World Series before they died. The tickets ended up going unused, and Dick hasn’t been eager about sports since.  
  
Dick points at the next word with the tip of his ice cream cone eraser. “Is this one right?”  
  
Bruce looks it over and nods. “Yep. Good job.” Dick moves on to the next word. “I was thinking about taking off work on Friday.”  
  
Dick’s brow wrinkles. “Why? Are you sick?”  
  
“No. There’s just not much going on at the office that day.” Not entirely true, but Lucius is more than capable of handling whatever business requires Bruce’s presence, and he’d probably do it ten times better. “I thought I’d stick around here, maybe catch up on some movies. Is that something you’d be interested in?”  
  
“I have school.” Dick’s attention remains fixed on his homework, but he side-eyes Bruce. “Remember?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
Dick has to know what Bruce is hinting at, right? He’s a smart kid. There’s no way he _doesn’t_ know. Is this his surreptitious way of telling Bruce that he’s not welcome at the Father’s Day event? Should Bruce take the rejection for what it is and drop the whole thing?  
  
On the other hand, it could be reverse psychology. Maybe Dick is trying to _appear_ uninterested, when what he _really_ wants is for Bruce to see through the act and go to the event anyway. Do third-graders even know how reverse psychology works?  
  
That brings it back to a fifty-fifty chance. Go to the event and upset Dick, or don’t go to the event and _still_ upset Dick. Is this what parenting is like for everyone? There really need to be more public warnings about the untold horrors of child-rearing. Wayne Enterprises should get into the condom business, just so they can label the wrappers with phrases like: _“Practice safe sex, or else your child will wake you up at three in the morning because their foot hurts”_ and _“Wrap it up or say goodbye to floating through life without wondering every second of every day if you are going to end up royally screwing up your child in the long run, turning their life into a cesspool of drugs and unresolved trauma.”_  
  
He’ll have to call Lucius in the morning and see if there’s enough in the development budget for the proposal.  
  
“For the love of god, man,” Alfred snaps on Thursday afternoon. Bruce has three pages’ worth of pros and cons for each option before him, and he’s no closer to a solution than he was five days ago. “Will you please pull your head out of your arse and just _talk to him?”_  
  
He truly has a way with words.  
  
Bruce finds Dick on the monkey bars in the yard an hour before bedtime. It’s typically all but impossible to see the stars in Gotham with the pollution clogging up the air, but the manor lies just far enough outside of the city that the night sky can glitter all it wants. “I brought you a jacket,” Bruce says, holding up Dick’s favorite Spiderman hoodie.  
  
Dick has his knees hooked over one of the rungs and swings back and forth, looking at Bruce like he grew an extra head. “It’s June.”  
  
“Right.” Bruce folds the jacket over his arm. “I wanted to talk to you about something, actually.”  
  
“I’ll clean up the Legos before I go to bed, I promise.”  
  
“It’s not that. I saw the invitation your teacher sent home for tomorrow.”  
  
Dick stops swinging. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”  
  
“Because you don’t want me there?”  
  
“Do _you_ want to go?”  
  
“I want to know what you think.”  
  
Dick shrugs—an impressive feat for one who is dangling upside-down. He grips the bar, scratching it idly with his thumbnail. “I dunno.”  
  
“I won’t go if you don’t want me to. You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings.”  
  
Dick’s expression hardens. “Fine. Then don’t go.”  
  
“Is that really what you want?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
That’s less than helpful. Bruce sighs and rubs his eyelids. “I’m not doing this right.” He looks back at Dick, whose eyes are on everything but Bruce. “I know I’m not a good replacement for your real father. And I don’t want to be one. But I _do_ want to be there for you when you need it. If you want me to step in when your parents can’t, I’d be happy to do that. If you’d rather I back off and we forget about Father’s Day altogether, that’s fine too. But you have to talk to me, kiddo.”  
  
Dick says nothing.  
  
“Do you... _want_ me to go? Is that it?”  
  
Dick bites his lip. After a minute, he nods.  
  
“Then why did you throw out the note? You know I would have said yes if you’d just asked me.”  
  
“I thought you wouldn’t want to go.”  
  
“What made you think that?” Admittedly, standing around making small talk with other parents while they watch a bunch of children make crafts isn’t Bruce’s dream of a Friday afternoon, but he’d do it for Dick. He’d do anything for Dick. And Bruce _has_ been meaning to get more involved in the PTA.  
  
“Because this is just temporary.”  
  
“Temporary?”  
  
Dick pulls himself up, flipping so he now sits on top of the monkey bars, his legs dangling in the air. If Bruce were half a foot taller, they would be the same height. “I thought that’s what the whole foster thing was for. Y’know, getting a kid for a little while without actually having to do the stuff that real dads do.”  
  
“That’s why you think I became your foster father? So I could send you away when I got bored?”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
_“No._ That’s not—no, Dick.” How long has Dick felt this way? Since his first week? Since before Bruce brought him home? “The reason I didn’t adopt you isn’t because I wanted a _loophole_ out of parenting you. I would have adopted you in a heartbeat if I could.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you?” It’s not accusatory, but it should be. How could Bruce have let Dick believe he was this unwanted for so long?  
  
“I thought _you_ didn’t want me to.” Unless he read everything wrong, which is a definite possibility at this point.  
  
“I didn’t,” Dick says quickly. “I _don’t._ But I still wanna know why.”  
  
Bruce sighs. He leans against one of the posts supporting the monkey bars. “I considered adopting you at first. That was the original plan.”  
  
“But you didn’t do that.”  
  
“No, I didn’t,” he confirms. “Because I remembered the way _I_ felt when my own parents died—how much they meant to me and how much it hurt when they were gone. I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to replace your mother and father, so I took you in as my foster child instead. I thought the title would make it...easier on you, somehow. Maybe that was a mistake on my part.” He stands straighter so he can look Dick in the eye. “But I promise you, it wasn’t because I was planning on getting rid of you. Ever.”  
  
“Oh.” Dick picks at a rip in his jeans, twisting the loose threads around his finger. “Okay.”  
  
“I understand if you don’t want to be adopted anytime soon. It’s okay if you _never_ want me to adopt you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t intend to be a part of your life for a long, _long_ time.”  
  
“So you don’t think I’m...clingy? Or annoying?”  
  
Bruce smiles. “Never. I’m here for the long haul, chum. So if you want me to come to your class’ Father’s Day celebration, I will absolutely do that for you. Just because your parents are gone doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to keep being loved.”  
  
It’s dark out, but not so dark that Bruce can’t see the mistiness in Dick’s eyes. Dick wipes them with his sleeve. “I’d...like it. If you were there. If you want to.”  
  
Something warm huffs to life in Bruce’s chest. “I’d be honored.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
On Sunday morning, Bruce arrives at the breakfast table to discover a plate of toast flooded with maple syrup and jelly beans at his usual place setting. Dick is at the stove stirring what looks like chocolate oatmeal while Alfred hovers. Alfred’s got the same look on his face as the time he taught Bruce how to drive: utter horror.  
  
“Morning!” Dick greets Bruce. “Alfie let me make breakfast.”  
  
“And you are doing a marvelous job,” Alfred assures him with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Dick points at the cloudy yellow glass beside Bruce’s plate. “I couldn’t remember if you liked orange juice or milk, so I poured ‘em both in.”  
  
Bruce pushes back the instinctive grimace and replaces it with a smile. “Thanks, chum. It looks delicious.” At least the toast looks edible, so long as he skirts around the blackened bits. “You made this all by yourself?”  
  
“Yep!” Dick abandons his post at the stove and grabs something from the counter. He thrusts it into Bruce’s hands. “I made this, too.” He runs back to tend to his oatmeal, the mess now boiling over the rim of the pot and sizzling on the stovetop like clumpy lava.  
  
The card is made of blue construction paper and covered in glitter, which sticks to Bruce’s fingers and sprinkles onto the tablecloth like fresh snow. On the front are stick figure versions of Bruce and Dick drawn in black and red crayon. Bruce opens the card.  
  
_Dear_ ~~_Tati_ ~~ _Bruce,_ _  
_ _  
_ _HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!!! Alfred took me to the store to buy you a present but I didn’t know what to get so_ ~~_insted_ ~~ _instead I made you these free hug coupons! (see on back) They expire in a week so you should use them really fast._ _  
_ _  
_ _Love, Dick_ _  
_ _  
_ _P.S. — I’m sad my mom and dad aren’t here, but I’m happy I got to meet you. I wouldn’t trade it for anything._  
  
“Do you like it?” Dick is sprinkling Fruity Pebbles atop the oatmeal sludge while Alfred tries to hide his disgust. “I know the hug coupons are kinda cheesy, but—”  
  
“I love it.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.” Bruce stands and pulls Dick into a hug. Dick’s head barely clears Bruce’s middle, and he silently wishes that Dick will stay this small forever, fitting perfectly in his arms like he was carved straight from Bruce’s heart. “Thank you, Dick.”  
  
_Thank you for teaching me how to care again._ _  
_ _  
_ _Thank you for being the only light in a world shrouded in darkness._ _  
_ _  
_ _Thank you for existing._  
  
Dick hugs him back, and Bruce can’t resist dropping a kiss on the head of fluffy hair tucked beneath his chin. “Happy Father’s Day, Bruce.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but seriously, "Everything Changes" from Waitress is a great song for this chapter, since it's all about embracing parenthood and loving your child. (Yes, I will be using song lyrics for each chapter because I haven't had an ounce of self-restraint in years.)
> 
> This chapter also turned out wayyyyy longer than I had originally planned, so...whoopsie. If all of the other chapters go the same way, you can expect to get the next one in a month or so if I stay on schedule. (That one will be introducing Jason because this fic is going in the same order as the batkids' origins happened in comics, so yeah.) Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


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